


After Henry

by GarlicDread



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 19:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16561817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarlicDread/pseuds/GarlicDread
Summary: Quick Mary/Tom romance fluff. Takes place a week after Mary breaks up with Henry over the phone in S6E7. AU in which Tom never invites Henry to Downton after that.





	After Henry

**Author's Note:**

> I plowed through DA for the first time over the past month or so and now have a new OTP... I couldn't get his out of my head so I wrote this up quickly. Hope you enjoy!

It is quiet at the breakfast table that morning. Mary spreads jam evenly onto another crumpet, the clink of the knife against the jam jar echoing hollowly in the silence. Tom, the only other family member still eating, glances at her briefly, then returns his gaze to his newspaper.

"Just because things have ended with Henry doesn't mean you need to act as if he's died." Mary says, wiping raspberry jam from the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

Tom lowers his paper and looks at her. "What?"

"You heard me. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about." Mary's eyes meet his, and there is a spark in them of irritation and pride. "You and everyone else in this house have been treating me as if I'm a widow all over again. On the rare occasion that one of you speaks to me, you act as if I'm a China doll that might break at any moment." She takes another bite, chews quickly, and swallows. "The fact is, I am perfectly fine with my decision. Happy, even."

Tom takes a sip of his tea. "If you say so."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Mary's voice rises.

Tom's eyebrows knit together angrily, and he opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. His face grows calm. "Mary," he says softly, almost affectionately. "It's too early for this." He averts his eyes from her steely gaze. "I shouldn't have replied like that."

"No, you shouldn't have." Mary stands abruptly and walks swiftly from the room, shoes clacking against the floor.

 

***

 

Mary sits in her bed that night and turns the pages of her wedding album. She stops on a portrait of Matthew in his wedding attire and strokes it lovingly. No one could ever replace him. How could she have been so stupid as to think things with Henry would work? They never had, and they never would.

Henry was handsome, yes, but not as handsome as Matthew. He was charming, but not as charming as Matthew. Henry made her feel wanted, but not loved, not cherished. Not alive.

She closes the book softly and places it on her bedside table. It is true. She hasn't felt fully alive since Matthew's passing. Yes, she is doing much better now, and her love for George helps to ease the pain. But she hasn't felt fully alive, excited, and eager to see what the next day would bring since the day she gave birth to George, before receiving the terrible news about Matthew.

That moment with Matthew and George in the hospital is one of her most precious memories, and she cherishes it dearly. George is starting to look like his father now too—blonde hair, blue eyes, and even a mischievous smirk nearly identical to the one that Mary saw so many times during their friendship, courtship, and eventual marriage. She loves that he takes after his father, but it is also painful and at times disarming to see a miniature version of his face daily.

George is just another part of what had made her relationship with Henry so difficult. He wasn't unkind to George, but he was awkward around him. He didn't know how to interact with children—a fact which he told her more than once—but that wasn't really it. A man can learn to be a father. She knows deep down that he was uncomfortable with the idea of raising another man's child. The fact is that most eligible bachelors are, even if they seem fine with it on the surface. She can't help but think of her childhood friend Margaret, whose stepfather always favored his biological children, and made sure that Margaret knew it.

She wonders if she'll ever love again, never mind marry.

She wonders if she was too harsh to Tom that morning. After all, he's one of the few people she's been able to truly relate to since Matthew passed, one of her few real friends. He knows what it's like—losing a spouse young and being a single parent.

But a friend is a poor substitute for a husband.

Mary sighs and turns out the light.

 

***

 

Mary and Tom are alone again at breakfast the next morning. Mary expects silence after the tension yesterday but is pleasantly surprised when Tom asks if she has any plans for the day.

"Not really," she says. "I was thinking of going into the village to buy some new story books for the children. Nanny says they've been making her read the same one every night for the past week."

"I was hoping to go into the village as well. There's going to be a charity event for the school and somehow Isobel has roped me into being on the committee." He rolls his eyes. "Any who, there's a brief meeting later this morning, and I'm expected to attend."

"Oh? I wonder why she didn't ask me."

"Well, things just started coming together about a week ago, right around the time of everything… You know."

"Oh." It was exactly a week ago today that she turned Henry down. "So just what I was speaking of yesterday."

Tom is silent for a moment. "I'm sorry."

"For yesterday? I don't care about that anymore, and you already—"

"For pushing you towards Henry."

She is quiet. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because…" He pauses, glancing at Carson, then leans over and whispers, "Can we continue this outside? Somewhere more private?" His blue eyes are wide, and she is somehow reminded of Matthew.

She nods, and they both leave the room. Carson watches, one eyebrow raised.

 

***

 

They walk through the woods, Mary bundled in a maroon peacoat and matching hat, Tom wearing his usual tan coat.

"Is this private enough yet?" Mary asks briskly. "Honestly, Tom, when you suggested a walk to somewhere more private, I didn't expect you meant for us to walk all the way to Scotland."

Tom laughs. "Yes, it's private enough. I was just enjoying the walk." His voice softens. "I didn't want to ruin it."

Mary stops walking. "Ruin it?"

Tom draws a breath in and rubs his hands together as if to warm them, though he is wearing thick leather gloves. Mary knows him well enough to know that this is his nervous habit. "For God's sake, Tom, speak already!"

"All right." He draws a deep breath. "I pushed you towards Henry and said he was right for you." Tom looks down. "I'm sorry because deep down, I knew he wasn't."

"What?" Mary's eyebrows come together in confusion and concern.

Tom lifts his head. "I knew he wasn't the right man for you. But I figured he was the closest you were going to get."

Mary gives a sharp laugh and her face reddens. "Oh, really? That's rich, Tom. As if I can't attract a proper man? This is me we're talking about, not Edith!"

"That's not what I meant!" Tom shouts. "He was a proper man and a nice fellow. I enjoyed his company. But I know he didn't make you feel the way you did when you were with Matthew."

Mary's dark eyes meet Tom's light ones, and her jaw sets. "You don't know anything."

"I know a lot of things, Mary."

Mary rolls her eyes. "This is ridiculous." She turns and starts to walk away, but Tom grabs her hand. She turns back to him, and his face is inches from hers. His eyes shine like the sea.

"I know that you're a wonderful mother to little George. I know that you're brave. I know that you're funny and sharp as a tack. I know the real you, the one you show me when we're visiting the farmers, or taking our walks, the kind, thoughtful you who you cover up because you're scared to be vulnerable after what happened with Matthew."

"Tom." Mary swallows. "Please, don't do this." Her heat beats faster, and even as her mind tells her this is wrong, her body yearns for him. He touches her cheek and her skin tingles.

"I know how it feels, Mary. I know how it feels to be alone, to cry every night, to not be able to sleep because your bed feels so big and empty and wrong. I know how it feels to see them reflected in your child's face and want to cry from both happiness and sorrow."

"Tom…" she says again, reaching for words that are only half-forming in her mind, ideas that are fuzzy and mixed-up, her brain drunk on his scent. "I… We can't…"

"Sybil and Matthew would want us to be happy."

Tears prick Mary's eyes. "How do you know what they would want?"

"Because they loved us." Tom's eyes well with tears now too. "And when you love someone, you want them to find happiness any way they can. Even if it's not with you." He smirks. "Even if it's with Henry Talbot."

Mary's eyes widen. "Love…?" she whispers.

"I love you, Mary Crawley." Tom gently supports her cheeks in his hands and kisses her. It is a long kiss, long and slow, loving and tender. Mary's eyes fall closed as she returns the kiss, her lips melting perfectly into his. Their lips finally part, foreheads touching.

"I love you, Thomas Branson."

He smiles, eyelids heavy. "I love the way you say my name."

She smiles back. "Likewise."

**end.**


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